He possessed a mind of intellectual-spiritual terrains and inner cities with little but the roads between them.
The windings of the inner city are gatherings of cloud in a test tube, he noted.
The nebulous unspoken terrain is a whisper that does not quite form a sentence. Syntax is subway there.
Walking from A to B in the inner city entails several detours but one can feel the magnetic force running between the two.
In the uncharted parts of the broad domain there are reputed to be fierce arguments about the necessity of maps.
The inner city has more inns and book shops than tailors. Its social life is ethereal gossip spiced with quotations.
The roads of the nebulous terrain connect to the inner city by a miracle prayed for by lexicographers of a mystical bent.
The inner city listens in to itself in surprise and horror. Its central square is not marked on the street map.
A visitor wandering around in the dark will discover the inner city between his ears. The nebulous domain vanishes.
It’s all nebulous, you’ll hear it said in the inner city. There are no inner cities only roads, say the inhabitants of the nebulous domain.